Witchcraft

weekend at his home, he had kissed her good night at her bedroom door. She did not fully understand his restraint or the rather cautious, distant way he treated her. Kimberly knew it probably had something to do with Cavenaugh's determination not to "pressure" her. But she couldn't help wondering if he intended to spend his wedding night in his own bedroom.
    There was no telling how far Cavenaugh would let his sense of responsibility and duty take him. "Kim?" Starke's voice held a note of concern. "Don't look so uneasy. Dare won't mind at all."
    "Mind what?"
    She pulled her attention away from her husband's hard-edged profile. "If you're pregnant."
    "That's very reassuring," she said with commendable lightness, "but as it happens, I'm not."
    "Oh. Too bad. Dare should have a couple of kids." "To, uh, carry on the Cavenaugh name?" Kimberly asked dryly. "No, just because he'd make a good father." Kimberly peered at her oblivious husband. "Do you think so?"
    "Yeah. Your grandparents would love some, too. They're having a good time tonight, aren't they?"
    Starke glanced with satisfaction to the far edge of the crowd where Wesley Marland and his wife were chatting enthusiastically with Aunt Milly and several of her friends. Starke was right. They were delighted with the wedding, embarrassingly grateful to have been invited. And they would adore a couple of grandchildren. " Cavenaugh made me invite them, you know," Kimberly confided after another sip of champagne. "Or perhaps I should say he strongly advised it."
    "Dare wanted to tie up all the loose ends," Starke said bluntly. "He's like that. How are you getting along with the Marlands ?"
    "With cautious politeness," Kimberly admitted honestly. "Well, look at it this way," Starke advised, "some people don't even have a cautiously polite relationship with their relatives!"
    "I suppose you're right." "Do you really hate them?" Kimberly thought about that for a split second and then shook her head. "No." It was the truth. She still wasn't certain how she felt about her grandparents but she knew she didn't hate them.
    Perhaps she was simply too much in love with Cavenaugh to have any emotion left over for something as useless as hate. "I told Dare he was an idiot to force you into meeting them," Starke informed her, sipping his whiskey. "But maybe he was right. Maybe it was the most efficient way of handling the situation. Dare's instincts are usually pretty solid."
    "Uh-huh, well, if he ever springs a surprise like that on me again, I'll probably break his neck."
    "I don't think you'll have to worry about Dare doing anything so risky for a long while," Starke said consideringly . "He's been handling you with kid gloves for the past six weeks." Kimberly bit her lip, knowing Starke was right and knowing, too, that she didn't really want that kind of cautious treatment from Cavenaugh . Determinedly she changed the subject. "Aunt Milly finally seems recovered from the shock of finding out Ariel was the villain of the piece. I was afraid she was going to go on blaming herself indefinitely for what happened."
    "Dare wouldn't let her do that," Starke said with a wryly crooked mouth. "He insisted on taking all the blame himself."
    "He' s big on assuming responsibility." Kimberly sighed. "It's in his blood," Starke opined. "Comes naturally to him. Some men are like that." Kimberly slanted him a sardonic glance. "Is that so?"
    "Yeah. But there's a price tag attached."
    "What do you mean?" Starke hesitated, as if trying to find the best way of saying what he had to say. "Men who have the guts to handle a lot of responsibility usually have the well, uh, the assertiveness it takes to make sure things get done right."
    "Assertiveness?" Kimberly tasted the word. "You mean the arrogance, the overbearing, domineering, stubborn machismo that it takes to railroad everyone into doing things the way said male wants them done?" Starke looked pleased at her understanding. "Something like that."
    "Forget assertiveness. Tell me about the dagger. What did you ever find out about it?" Starke shrugged. "Dare was right. Some of our old contacts in the import business finally recognized it. The design dates back a few centuries to a style that was used in Europe at one time by people who called themselves witches."
    "How did Ariel get hold of it?" Kimberly asked. "This particular dagger wasn't really old.
    It's a copy. Ariel apparently found a drawing in one of her occult books and took it to a